What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic... too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies.

Sunday, May 22, 2016

I miss window shutters:
Sunlight split through louvres
Of tapered edges
And bevelled ends
Framed in the warmth
Of wood that bears
Cuneiform scriptures
On brittle palimpsest
Of myriad paint-jobs,
Which had vainly attempted
To cover the crow's feet
And whirling laugh lines
Of droll, old trees.

These factory-produced,
light, and cold
aluminium sections,
Forever shuffle
a feet and a half
each way, each day.
They lack the animation
Of rusty iron hinges
Opening wide embraces
In perfectly pivoted,
graceful arcs
To left, to right.
Perhaps their banality
Is a fitting companion
To the naked view
Of the unfettered glazing.

Think, instead,
Of nine square nine inches
In ground glass, panelled,
At the upper reaches
Of the louvered shutters
Beyond the inquisitive eyes.
Nestled in between
Would be a slender tower bolt,
The curve of its knob
Felt in daily caresses
As distant and acute as your memories.